


The Rest Of The World Out There

by JinkyO



Series: Before Us There Was Me [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Identities, Backstory, F/M, Gen, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Injury Recovery, M/M, MIT Era, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:57:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An imagined backstory of a farm town boy who would one day change the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lassiter

**PG: GAMBIT -3 FL:4319D [CLASSIFIED]**  
 **3532C-000**

**ACCESSING NRO ARCHIVES...**  
 **SATELLITE IMAGE DATABASE**  
 **SECTION: CLASSIFIED**  
 **PROGRAM: KH-8**  
 **CODENAME: GAMBIT-3**  
 **FLIGHT: 4319D**  
 **MISSION: DOMESTIC SURVEILLANCE**  
 **LAUNCH DATE: 1972/03/15**

  
Of all the seasons Spring was his favorite. This was planting season. Trailing behind his father through the winter thawed fields, stopping on occasion to record the top and subsoil moisture levels, Harry could almost see the first spring oat crop. The thick green sway of the milk stage, gradually giving way to pale gold as the weeks bled into summer.

Spring oats.  
Summer corn.  
Winter wheat and red clover.  
A different rotation each year.

  
“And I thought my head was too far into the clouds.”

Harry started at the warm sound of his fathers voice, smiled at the gentle ruffle of his hand through Harry's too long hair. “I was just...”

His father smiled down at him and looped his arm around his son's shoulder, guiding them back to the farmhouse. “Just imaging the possibilities?”

“Yeah. It's still pretty fantastic, year after year.”

“That it is.” His father said quietly as he gave Harry's shoulder a squeeze. Unspoken between them was the knowledge that this was it, that they were counting down the last seasons now. Crop by crop and the annual returns of the ruby-throated hummingbird. Harry, despite his all competence and enthusiasm, would never be a farmer.

–  
 **1976/10/24**

The last harvest came without either of them knowing. Harry had worked the combine for days, plotting the direct lines between a late start and a slow planting, a freak early killing frost and the dismal soybean yield. Reaping, threshing, and winnowing, Harry had worked alone.

He would lay down this last cover crop of winter rye. He would make the calls later to start the process of selling off the lower 500 acres. Up ahead he made out the shape of his father emerging from the shed. Pausing the seed drill, he dug the still unfamiliar eye glasses from his pocket. Up ahead his father snapped into focus, arm raised, waving hello from across the rich black soil.

Waving hello. Waving goodbye.

Harry pulled the glasses from his face, jammed them back into his pocket. He shifted gear and the seed drill roared to life again. Winter rye and spring land auctions. Lassiter and the rest of the world out there.

  
\---  
 **1978/07/04**

Fireworks.

Harry stretched out in the open flatbed of the truck. The sky stretched out wide and open above. Punctuated every so often by the far off boom and flash of pyrotechnics.

Lucy Davenport curled close to his side.

_How soft is Nature's calm repose_  
 _When ev'ning skies their cool dews weep:_  
 _The gentlest wind more gently blows,_  
 _As if to soothe her in her sleep!_

–  
 **1979/08/13**

Who needed a keg party when you could spend the night bathing your father?

“Want me to warm up some milk for you?” Harry asked as he helped his father down onto the bed. Not too long ago Harry would have been the one treated to a night time glass of warmed milk dashed with nutmeg, regaled with a chapter of Oliver Twist and the always open opportunity to share an overly complex update on his latest circuit array.

Not too long after that his father set the kitchen on fire.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, giving his one-sided update anyway. The circuits had grown more complex. The 60 amp standard REA electrical installation wasn't nearly strong enough to power the microprocessors. But still, he'd made progress. His machine was learning. His machine had graduated from Morse to BASIC, then C. The code was easy.

Much less complicated than Lucy Davenport.  
Much, much less complicated than Walter Mayhew and their warm burrowings together in the hayloft. These things he did not share.

  
His father was asleep, no milk. Harry tucked the sheet over his shoulders then pressed a kiss to his father's furrowed brow, slipped out of the quiet bedroom and back downstairs to his friend.

–  
 **1979/08/14**

It was much easier than it should have been. Harry decided that, given the opportunity, he'd build it much better. His keystrokes sounded like staccato poetry, gaining an entry to the stream of packets transferring a world of information back and forth.

**WREN, HAROLD**  
 **Social Security Number: xxx-xx-xxxx**  
 **Known Aliases:**  
 **Occupation:**  
 **Associates:**

He'd retrieved the old template from a back up floppy. Incomplete. An early exercise in sedition. Keystrokes and imagination fleshed out the picture and bricked up the back doors. Air tight code, powered by ARPANET, shrouded by immense skill and hastened by the unknown TCP/IP window that had first appeared last month and then again with increased regularity.

Back and forth.

They knew who he was, in general. Knew where he was, in general. Camouflaging the data stream was also easier than it should have been but Harry knew he couldn't keep it up forever. His homemade computer had taken him as far as it could. He stilled his fingers over the keys, a gentle stroke of his hand over the too warm processor.

Tomorrow he would check his father into The Pines. Then, Harry would disappear for a while, manage the disposal of the farm from afar. Dodge the men in black and let the trail run cold. Dodge the men in black and start all over again, small and inconspicuous. Dodge the men in black and disappear into the world out there.

  
–


	2. Gravitational Pull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fledged Wren was learning to fly and Ingram was there, always, to catch him. His time at MIT forged in him an appreciation for efficiency, clarity of thought, and the helpful hand of luck. Harold decided that he had been lucky to find Nathan.

**ACCESSING DOD DATABASE...**  
**DOD TS TRACKING #: 1-3557 [CLASSIFIED]**  
**DATE: 1980/10/27**  
**SUBJECT: ARAPNET OUTAGE DATA BREECH**  
**INVESTIGATION: ACTIVE**  
**OUTAGE: 4 HRS**  
**NODES AFFECTED: 73**  
**FILES BREACHED: 2153  
** **POINT OF ORGIN: SECT. 988032**

 

Agent Healy dropped the thin manila envelope on the Chief's desk. “We got him.”

Healy closed the door behind him before continuing. “Our guy is getting bolder. He stayed on long enough, this time, for us to get a hit. I need to know the protocol , Sir, – I've got two men on standby for the first flight out in the morning.”

The Chief fingered the envelope closer, picked it up, tested the light weight before breaking the seal. “There is no protocol. The rocket scientists still don't know how he got so far in. For now, they want to... study him.”

Healy cut his eyes across the desk. “Our man could very well be working for the Ruskis. That's worth a look, isn't it?”

The Chief stuffed the file notes back into the envelope before returning it to Healy. “Send your team in. Get me a name and face to go with this file. This does not get back to brass, Healy. Clean it up.”

Healy understood, for this one his team was black ops. Jameson and Farrel were two of his best. Once their plane landed in Lassiter the two cleaners began a systematic search for Subject: Unknown.

They found the farmhouse empty.  
They found the remains of a bonfire in the clearing behind the house. Recent. The damp surrounding soil still held the sharp smell of burnt electrical fittings.

 Public records led them to the nursing home. The old man was less uncooperative than he was incapable of cooperation.

The need for forensics took them back to the farmhouse. Slower this time, room by room. Probably not a Russian operative. Probably related to the old man somehow, though he wasn't telling. Certainly familiar with technology and completely capable of leading them to this dead end.

Farrel dusted for prints. Jameson sifted through the bonfire ashes for anything of salvage value. Bagged and tagged, to be stored in a warehouse in Nebraska - because official channels have neither the clearance or consent to conduct unofficial investigations.

 **Field Case Report: 17-0684 [Classified]  
** **Subject: [UNKNOWN]**

 

\--

**1980/08/29**

“Wren. Harold Wren.”

“Right! I remember you from Rush, the demo party, come on in!” Nathan Ingram, pulled open the dorm room door to let Wren inside. “I already called dibs on the bed by the window but the other one looks comfortable enough too. Hey, you need any help with those bags?”

“No thank you, I've got it.” Harold kicked the door closed behind him then dropped his suitcase and backpack on the smaller bed against the wall. While his research on all of the available housing options confirmed East Campus as the dorm for him, he had not counted on being roomed with such a... boisterous dorm mate. Ingram was rangy and loose with a fall of thick blond hair. Harold picked up on a slight accent, probably tempered into submission during a stint in prep school. He also picked up on the easy way Ingram moved through room, deftly side stepping his own stack of suitcases to end up in front of Harold.

 Ingram clasped his hands onto Harold's shoulders and Harold's chin shot up.

 “Skittish,” Ingram said as he quirked an eyebrow, “So what is it, Harry? EAPS? A space cadet?”

 Harold flushed, shaking his head quickly. Shrugging himself free of the uninvited touch. “No, no, EECS. Computers. And it's Harold.”

 “Ah!” Ingram said, his impossibly wide smile growing even wider. “An engineer after all. “ Ingram gave him a pat on the back before stepping away, “Harold.”

\--

**First Year**

The fledged Wren was learning to fly and Ingram was there, always, to catch him. Harold decided that he had been lucky to find Nathan. The first year was more than he could have imagined back on the farm. The undergrad classes challenged him and the demanding schedule, which would go on to break more than a few of his classmates, forged in him an appreciation for efficiency, clarity of thought, and the helpful hand of luck.

Harold Wren went home one more time that first year. Lucy had gone off to Des Moines, he'd heard. He made it as far as the mailbox at the end of the long dirt road leading to the Mayhew farm. Idly, he ran his fingers underneath the weathered metal and found the small, now empty, nook. How many hastily scrawled notes had he retrieved from and delivered to that nook over the past years?

The dirt road lead to the house, to Walter's attic bedroom, to the hayloft overlooking the Mayhew milk cows, and disappeared into the thick copse of redcedar that bounded the Mayhew farmstead. How many times had those hastily scrawled notes led him to the trees? The soft undergrowth, the trill and chatter of waxwings and bluebirds overhead and the clean, pervasive scent of juniper berries crushed beneath his back? Or Walter's?

The hand of luck had already gotten him clear of The Pines. The fact that the government agents had gotten so close shook him and he suspected they must have surveilled the visitor check-in. Not that it mattered, his father was gone.

The dirt road would also be left behind.

Meeting Arthur Claypool, in his second year, was another stroke of luck. While Nathan ignited all the very wrong aspects of his personality, Claypool made him think.

\--

 **Harvard-Yale**  
  
“Explain to me again, why we would want to pull this off?” Harold asked as he scrutinized the crumpled blueprints laid out on the table in front of him.

 “Because it would be, -gasp-, fun,” Nathan deadpanned, his chin resting on Harold's shoulder. “Not to mention the unlimited pretty-kitty pass.”

“Harold doesn't need a hack to pull the girls,” Arthur chimed in, across the table from the two dorm mates. “We want to pull it off because it'll take Delta Kappa Epsilon two months, easy, to figure and fabricate these plans. We could do it in two weeks.”

Harold met Arthur's face, he recognized a challenge when it was thrown down. “Be that as it may, I'm not a Deek and I still don't understand what I would get out of it?”

Nathan shifted, his lips whispering over Harold's ear, “What do you want?”

“Seriously, Nathan!” Harold pulled away in annoyance and gave Arthur and his sheaf of hand drawn plans his full concentration. “Ok, so we'd need to build a hydraulic press... And we won't need that much pressure, maybe...”

“A vacuum cleaner motor?” Nathan supplied.

Harold nodded slowly, mulling over the idea, “That just might do it. Yes.”

“And here, we could tap into the field irrigation system for power,” Arthur said, pointing out the marked areas on the Harvard Stadium map.

Harold was already sketching out a cleaner version of the plans. “Hmmm.... We can do it. And it would probably go down in hack history... But we'll need some help -managing security, transport, Freon -we're going to need lots of Freon.” Harold put his pencil down. “Arthur, Nathan, how soon could you get me in to talk to the Deeks?”

Nathan ended up coordinating their work with the fraternity. He understood that world well. Harold and Arthur split the actual work of building the pump system. In the end, Harold had called it perfectly, the Freon filled balloon that emerged on the 50 yard line in the middle of the Harvard-Yale game would go on to be remembered as one of the high points of a long simmering rivalry between MIT and Harvard.

The men of Delta Kappa Epsilon were all too happy to take the credit and no one got expelled.

–  
**Melvil Dewey (1851–1931)**

“...so, you see, without the classification system it all devolves back to a mishmash of fixed-location vs. subject vs. alphabetical, and that's no way to run a library.”

Harold was entranced. Head resting on his hand, leaning in over the returns counter. He didn't realize the lesson was over until her pink glossed lips smoothed down to a tight line.

“Were you listening at all?”

“Hmm?” He blinked. “Yes. Oh, of course. Maybe I could come by again tomorrow? You can show me how it all works?”

Jennifer was not a beauty. Perhaps handsome was the best way to describe her clear skin and strong jawline, all framed by the most enticing wild black curls. And she was smart. After the first week of the semester Harold made a point to get to the lecture hall early for 24.244, Modal Logic. He'd taken a peek through the registrar's files and knew she had to haul it across campus to get to class on time. He got there early and saved the seat next to him for her.

“Tomorrow?”

Harold answered her with a quick, unbidden smile.

“My work-study shift starts at four.”

“Well, I.... let me check.” Harold pulled his planner out, going through the motions of checking his schedule. “Okay, tomorrow. Be there or be square!”

“You're such a goober, Harold Wren!” She said as she shooed him away from her desk.

He watched her and her cart of books move away towards the stacks. He caught the parting smile she shot him over her shoulder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd so con-crit is always appreciated.


	3. [Subject: KNOWN]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold didn't need a live-in problem like Nathan Ingram. Too many questions without answers, like, aside from a single letter last month from a nursing home in the middle of Iowa, why didn't Harold get mail, or phone calls, or visitors from off campus?

**root@wren-s:/home/wren# /opt/ibm/_initiate.Sys/_mainframe.Reboot**  
 **1980/31/12**

  
Spring was the best, but Winter had its appeal too. Snow blanketed the campus in quiet stillness and Harold could hear his ragged breath, the steady left-right-left-right of his feet on the snow cleared path. Left-right-left-right-systole-diastole, breathe, breathe.

He made the turn onto Memorial, the Charles river at his side. The sun would be coming up soon. He ordered the rest of his day as he navigated the silent footpath. Soft poached eggs, rye toast and ham. Maybe a side of bacon as well? That left him all day to finish his mods on the computer. All day, assuming Nathan stayed “out”.

Nathan of the persistent touches and the disconcerting flirtations. What did it all mean? He'd already formed a theory and set about collecting data. Harold was relatively sure, had confirmed for himself, on more than a few accidental occasions, that Nathan liked girls. Harold was even more sure that Nathan also liked him.  
 _Liked_ him.

Hmm. That could -would – be a problem. Harry didn't need a live-in problem like a perceptive Nathan. Too many questions without answers, like, aside from a single letter last month from a nursing home in the middle of Iowa, why didn't Harold get mail, or phone calls, or visitors from off campus? Who are you? Nathan had asked once. Something, something, orphan, trust fund, he'd answered. And that seemed to settle things until Nathan brought it up again at the start of winter break.

His Walkman clicked as the cassette changed sides. _Who interrogates an orphan?_  
His stomach rumbled. Harold picked up his pace.

  
Nathan was nowhere to be found when he got back to the room. Out. Most likely still with the redhead from yesterday. Belly full and body still humming from the cross country turn around campus, he stripped, then showered, in peace.

Electronics never gave him trouble. Binary storage and processing, data input and retrieval. _You can call me Harold Wren, I have no family, please leave it at that._

Harold popped the computer case open and got to business. Serial cables tangled with expansion cards and spare drives atop the worktable. He slowly worked his soldering iron over the chips. Yes, the new IBM 5150 sacrificed power for price but with a few tweaks, like maxing out the RAM to a full 640kb and swapping out the standard CPU for the Zilog V20, Harold soon had himself a machine that could keep up with him.

“Would you look at that,” he murmured to himself as he fed the machine line after line of code.  
Afternoon sun slanted into twilight through the windows. The code scrolled over the screen in neat 80 column text mode, nimble and responsive under his touch.

He didn't hear the soft click of the door.

“So you finally unboxed it?” Nathan drawled as he crossed the room to stand behind Harold's chair. “How's it running?” Nathan dropped his hands to the table bracketing the keyboard, arms brushing against Harold's.

There was nowhere to bolt, so Harold answered instead. “At last check I was clocking near five megahertz. I think I can push that to seven, but it will take me a few days to scrounge up spare parts.”

Nathan leaned in closer, stubble scratching over Harold's cheek. Pungent and earthy, Nathan hadn't showered yet.

The cursor on the screen blinked green, awaiting a new input string.

Nathan dragged his hand over Harold's to touch the screen, underlining a command prompt. “Why not use an interlink redirect here?” he asked.

“It's, ah, more..” Harold sat up and tried to nudge Nathan back. “It's more efficient to use system config. What is it you want, Nathan?”

Nathan laughed then finally took a step back. “I can't appreciate a master at work? Is it something top-secret, Harold?”

“It's my Introduction to Algorithms final project. Only, better. Much better, much cleaner.”

“Only you would spend a day re-doing old homework.” Nathan said, and suddenly the musky scent was stronger and far too close. Harold watched as Nathan's sweatshirt arced into view and landed near the laundry hamper. Then Nathan entered his field of view, strong fingers working loose his jeans. “What do you have on tap for tonight?”

“I... Working. Working out a few bugs.” Harold stuttered.

“It's New Years Eve, Harold. I'm not sure how they celebrated that back in the orphanage but here we like to ring in the new year with a bang." Nathan kicked out of his shoes, pushed out of his jeans, left the thin cotton boxers on. “Pack it in for the night, you work too hard. Let me get cleaned up, then, if it doesn't offend your delicate sensibilities, we can walk over to Bexley Hall to see how the other side parties.”

“I really should finish this...”

“Jesus, Harold. Come out tonight. Have a few drinks. Your precious isn't going anywhere.” Nathan's irritation was palpable as he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind.

Had he been holding his breath? Harold's hands shook. He saved the program, powered down the computer.

Okay.

Okay. Laundry was on the to-do list but he found a clean change of clothes. A jacket. Wallet, he would probably need some cash. Check and check. Harold sat on the edge of his bed and listened to the running shower.  
  
As it happened, the other side partied a lot like they partied in Iowa, only with more variety of drink, smoke and willing partners. Harold and Nathan got separated soon after they reached the third floor of Bexley Hall. Occasionally he would catch sight of Nathan, red Solo cup in hand. He split his attention between watching Nathan and following the conversation going on now with the pretty exchange student.

Harold enjoyed the way her accent tickled over his ear. He shifted closer to catch her lilting laughter at his, admittedly, off-color joke. Who didn't enjoy a good party? What he wasn't looking forward to was trying to explain how easily one very pretty girl had spawned three. How Nathan's introverted mouse of a roommate deftly managed the trio now crowded on the couch around him, each trying to outdo the other for his attention. A hand on his knee, a door code whispered into his ear, an outrageously brazen trick of tongue, cherry and knots.

Somewhere between Padma and Allison, Harold forgot about Nathan.

Dick Clark animated mutely on the television screen.  
Cut to a shot of the ball hanging over Times Square.  
10  
9  
  
Whose hand was that? Oh!

6  
5

Ohhhhh!

3  
2

Nathan.  
Cocked against the wall opposite Harold's couch, the girl in his arms up on her toes for the kiss. Nathan's hand at the small of her back. Nathan's eyes locked on Harold.

> // 2149 Transmit data did not equal receive data  
>  // 2147 Unexpected transmit interrupt  
> 

Harold closed his eyes and dropped his head back to the couch. New year, new questions but all of that could wait until a new day. Allison had found a particularly sensitive spot at the front of his neck. Padma had taken over the heavy lifting, dragging her palm over his thigh, fingernails trailing the inner seam of his slacks. Which left Janet. Janet with the nibbling teeth.

“Excuse me, ladies. I think my friend here has had enough.” Harold's eyes shot open and met Nathan's apologetic smile. “He's got a big day ahead of him tomorrow and I promised to get him to bed on time.” Nathan gripped Harold's arm, lifting him out of the tangle, holding Harold tight to his side.

“How dare you?!” Harold hissed.

“Say goodnight, Harold.”

Whatever Harold was going to say died on his lips. Nathan dared because he could. Because Harold had not discouraged him, had not been clear in expressing the complete inappropriateness of this game. Nathan dared because Harold enjoyed it. They walked back to East Campus in silence.

  
Harold was shrugging out of his jacket when he noted the distinct click of Nathan setting the door lock.

“So...”

Harold turned to face Nathan, his head tilted, inviting Nathan to continue.

“Didn't know you had it in you.”

“Hmm. Well, surprise, I suppose.”

“I read you completely wrong, didn't I?” Nathan was closing the distance between them, his eyes shadowed in the darkness but Harold understood that he was being reappraised. Understood that the game had changed. “What else did I get wrong. Harold?”

Harold heard a catch in the words, watched the shifting outline of Nathan's head. Too quickly Harold recognized it as hurt. Nathan was hurt and Harold had not anticipated that.

“I didn't grow up in an orphanage, if that's how you imagined it,” he answered.

“Do you have family? Back in Iowa?”

“Not anymore, no.” Truth.

“Is your name really Harold Wren?”

He paused. “Now? Yes, yes it is.”

“Hmm.” Nathan stepped away and flicked on the overhead light.

There was no hiding from this, Nathan had dug in his heels. “Why 'now'? What are you running from, Harold Wren?”

“Youthful indiscretion.” Truth, in a way.

“Seems like an awful lot of trouble to get out of -An underage drinking charge?” Nathan's eyes narrowed, “Drugs? Arson? Shotgun wedding?”

“Seriously, Nathan! Nothing at all like that!”

“Then what?”

Harold's lips quivered. He took a breath. “I broke into the Department of Defense's network. The Advanced Research Projects Agency Network. “ Harold mirrored Nathan's nodding, “You've heard of it? Well I got in. I... took a look under the hood, took it for a test drive. And then... “ A smile creased Harold's lips, “I may have left the keys in the ignition.”

“That was you?”

“That was me.” Then almost as an after thought, “But you can't tell anyone, ever.”

“Who would I tell, what would I say?” Nathan sat down on Harold's bed, glancing up every few seconds as he processed this new information. “You... you did this all by yourself?”

Harold sat down next to him. “Who would I tell? What could I say?”

“You told me.” Nathan said after a while.

“I decided I might as well...trust you.”

The words sat there until they became uncomfortable. Nathan, as Harold had observed, did not like uncomfortable. The tall man stood, twisted his torso in stretch. “I would like a drink. You?” He was uncapping the cheap scotch from their make-shift bar on the bookcase shelf. Brought the bottle and two glasses back to the bed.

“Why me, why now? I mean, looks like you've done pretty well on your own so far?” Nathan passed one of the glasses to Harold before taking his seat, pushing back across the bed to rest his back against the wall.

Harold took a drink, his eyes closed as the liquor burned down his throat. “No offense, but you are... fairly easy to read, Nathan. Your father made you apply, right? Maybe even greased the wheels a little to make sure you got admitted? You're a good engineer... and if you worked just a little harder at it you could be... better. But this is not what you want to do. You're trying to please your father. And trying to figure out who you are.”

Harold balanced his glass and moved back sit next to Nathan. “I trust you because, in your own way, you're just as... unfettered as I am. So? Have I misplaced my trust?”

Nathan nursed his scotch for a moment. “No.” He lifted his glass in a toast, “No you have not, Harold Wren.”

Harold touched his glass lightly and smiled.

“Top off?” Nathan asked after a while.

“No. I think tonight I celebrated enough for two new years.”

“Mmm.” Nathan turned to study Harold's face. “If you can read me so well, tell me why I wanted you to come out with me tonight?”

“Honestly? You wanted to out me. You wanted to fill in the missing information, to solve the puzzle. And,” Harold thought of his, perhaps not quite scientific hypothesis, “and, possibly try to cop a cheap feel.”

“Wrong. Mostly” Nathan said softly.

“Am I?” Harold sensed the game had changed yet again.

“I figured you'd either tell me your story or you would not. I wouldn't have tried to trick it out of you, Harold. I just wanted to get you out of this room for a while. Give the boy prodigy a taste of normal. But you...”

Nathan's voice trailed off. He unscrewed the scotch again and poured a generous drink. Harold pushed his glass over as well, fully aware that another drink, on top of the earlier cheap champagne would muddy his ability to anticipate where, exactly, this conversation would lead next.

“You, “ Nathan started up again, “already know normal. Know it well enough to subvert it and no one would be the wiser.”

Harold went quiet.  
Took a slow sip of scotch.

“You wised up to it.”

“Because I'm probably the first person who's ever... seen you in action.”

Harold snorted a laugh, “I'm not some god damn super hero, Nathan. You make it all sound so dramatic.”

“Isn't it though?” Nathan flashed a full, wide smile then drained his glass.

“Nathan, I'm sorry I called you... transparent earlier. That was rude and wrong of me.”

“Yes, it was.” Nathan rested the scotch and his glass against Harold's pillow then pushed himself forward and up off the small bed. He extended his hand down to Harold. “But I let it slide because I wanted to know where you were going with it.” Nathan pulled him up, steadying Harold with a hand to his forearm. “Still, in all fairness, I had you pegged for the quivering virgin. And if I couldn't seal the deal I at least owed you a night out to try your luck with the weirdos in Bexley Hall.”

“Now that was uncalled for.” Harold said, his mouth pulling to a tight line.

“Apologies all around then. Completely uncalled for because I failed to accurately measure the strength of your pull.” Nathan unfolded his fingers and released his light hold on Harold's forearm. “I suspect I've failed to account for a lot.”

“Too many words, Nathan.” Harold took the step forward, chin lifted, his arm tucked into the curve of Nathan's waist. So many theories to test.

Fact: Nathan Ingram knew his way around a kiss. Depth and variable pressure, a little bit of torque.

Fact: Harold Wren was no slouch in the osculation department either.

Nathan guided him backward across the room. All hands and winter unwrappings, they tumbled down onto his larger bed, up against the windows. “Hey... “

There was the hitch again in his voice. Harold looked up at Nathan, rested his hand on the back of his neck. “Hey, what?”

“This too? You've done this before?” Nathan asked, scrutinizing Harold's face while he waited for an answer.

“Does that ruin the fantasy?” Harold answered levelly.

Nathan shook his head slowly. “No.” And this time his kiss was different, slow and serious. Nathan was working harder.

Harold guided Nathan's mouth and hands then relaxed underneath him after Nathan figured out the rest for himself.

Maybe, Harold thought later as he cradled Nathan against his chest, the best way to deal with a problem like Nathan Ingram was to turn the problem into an opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrengram decided it need to be written down.


	4. Migrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A partnership that included Olivia and Will. Sometimes, if he was in a particularly peevish mood, Harold went out of his way to remind Nathan of this complicated arrangement. And sometimes, when there was too much work and not enough qualified staffers available to transform Harold's code into software that worked flawlessly, peevish crossed over to cruelty.  
> Nathan never complained and Harold never apologized. Complicated and destined for misery.

  
**Olivia**

“Nathan, you can't be serious?” Harold rolled to his side. The sun had gone down hours ago but enough campus light spilled in from the windows to illuminate Nathan's face. “You only have one semester left! Dropping out now doesn't make sense.”

Nathan dipped his head, silencing the rest of Harold's complaints with a kiss. “I'm never going to make a living as a programmer, you know that.” Nathan teased the sheet away from Harold's shoulder, his fingers playing over the pale skin there. “I've got other strengths. I know how to sell, how to work a room. I know...”

“I know that you've put too much time in to drop out now. Have you told your father yet?”

“He knows.” Another kiss. “It's Olivia... she's...”

"Oh, Nathan...,” Harold dropped down onto his back, pulling Nathan atop him. There was no talking Nathan down. Of course he had to marry her and maybe he'd end up back in Texas, at IBM, something safe and secure. Something so un-Nathan like. “You know this will end up miserably.”

 _if (response =i.do) (_  
// code to perform GO action  
} else {  
// code to perform TellHim action  
}

 

Lose, lose.

 

**1983/03/11**

Nathan had moved out at the end of Fall. For obvious reasons, planning the wedding and securing a comfortable home for an expecting bride had become his main priorities. For not so obvious reasons Nathan's priorities moved towards the top of Harold's list too.

Though Nathan had settled into a modest loft in Manhattan, Harold sometimes caught himself wondering why he hadn't just stayed at the dorm until the wedding. These thoughts were strongest on the odd Fridays when he'd come back to the room to find Nathan curled asleep on his old bed after the nearly six hour drive from the city. Olivia still had to finish her internship hours before graduation, Nathan had told him that first time. Olivia would be graduating, Harold noted to himself. Nathan spent his days alone in the city doing what he did best, meeting people and striking deals. Olivia would leave Vassar in the spring with a wedding ring and a degree and Harold would be working behind the curtains to make it all happen.

Harold didn't mind the odd Fridays that stretched to awkward Sunday afternoons when Nathan had to drive back. He hadn't minded after the first time, after Nathan convinced him that things would be just like they'd been before. Almost like before. Two days out of the month like before.

Harold hadn't minded making arrangements for a church, tux and gown fittings, caterers or the quick phone calls to schedule a minister and blood tests for the license. Nathan was too busy building a nest for all of them in the city. Harold didn't mind pitching in to help.

Now, straightening Nathan's bow tie in the dressing room, as the family and friends of the bride and groom shuffled into the pews, Harold's months of help unfolded.

“Do I look okay?” Nathan asked, preening at his reflection in the mirror.

“Better than okay. The blue was a good choice,” Harold answered as he smoothed the back of the tux. His hands finally coming to rest on Nathan's shoulders. “So, this is it?”

He felt the sigh run through Nathan and girded himself as he friend turned from the mirror to face him. “Yeah.” Nathan cut his eyes to the closed door before dropping a kiss on Harold's forehead. “Just a little longer, okay? Just until June?”

The baby would be here by June. Harold would have moved to the city by June and he knew Nathan already had plans in motion to take care of his new family. Out in the chapel the pianist was playing. Heavy footfalls outside the dressing room announced the arrival of the rest of Nathan's groomsmen. This was it.

 **New York City**  
**1983/06/06**  
The baby came two weeks earlier than expected.  
Nathan missed the entire commencement ceremony.

Harold didn't mind this either. He'd already sent his bags, boxes, keyboards and hard drives ahead. _-Pamela Rusinak_. Harold Wren shifted in his seat. He could appreciate the pomp and circumstance of the ceremony, but already an hour in and he was ready to go. Polaroid snapshots and the quick cluster pop of applause as the newly conferred Bachelors of Electrical Engineering  & Computer Science, MIT Class of 1983, crossed the stage one by one to receive their diplomas. _-Patrick Tierney_. Arthur Claypool was on his way to Washington, D.C. Tonight Harold and his second oldest friend would take one more turn through campus. Old haunts and acquaintances, a world away from Lassiter. Three years to harvest.  
_\- Todd Worsley._

–  
Nathan met him at Penn Station, all apologies and furtive touches. Baby Will was healthy and fat. Olivia was hosting a dinner for Harold at the house tonight. Nathan discharged the awkward reunion during the entire cab ride to the recently emptied Washington Market loft.

“ _Here, it's yours, “ Nathan had said, pressing the bow wrapped spare key into his hand. “Olivia's parents are helping us with the house and - it'll be easier all around if you're nearby.”_

Easier to juggle the baby and the business and his silent partner, Harold translated. Easier to explain away late nights at the office or train station delays and cold dinners waiting on the table. The cab ride to _his_ loft now. The welcome home toast, the welcome home kiss. Harold and Nathan christened the space. It had been too easy, Harold thought later in the back of his head. Every predictor in this scenario warned of a catastrophic system failure waiting just around the corner.

–  
**IFT**  
**1983/08/27**

Harold closed the investors packet. “You still haven't told me what it means? Ingram's Future Technologies? Ingram's Favorite Toys?”

“It doesn't mean anything. If I had my way the papers would say IWT...or WIT, if we're being honest.” Harold caught the tightening around Nathan's lips as his partner continued on. “But, since you're committing to the mysterious, silent partner shtick, I get an _I_ and the rest I made up. The Ef and Tee sound good though, say it, 'IFT'.”

“I asked you to respect my decision, you don't have to agree with it.” Harold said -too sharply he realized a moment later when the baby in his arms set up a small protest. “Shhh,” Harold shifted Will to his other side and tucked him in closer before continuing. “Why not just call it Ingram Technologies, or IT, or something that means something?”

“I just told you what would me something to me,” Nathan answered from the overstuffed chair opposite Harold and Will. Legal documents and forms spread out on the table between them. “Listen, how many times are we going to have this conversation? You're right, I don't agree with you. You are a gifted engineer, Harold. IFT will live or die on the strength of the things you can do with software. We've got investors, lawyers, office space. Once we sign this thing into life, you are locked into 'Harold Wren, The Invisible Man'. I don't want that for you, living a double life.”

Harold cupped his hand behind Will's head. “Are you finished? Nathan, you lost the right to dictate behavior to me a while ago. The arrangement stays as is, it's a good division of labor and it's what I want.” He was tired. He wanted to sign the paperwork then escape the lovely home of Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Ingram for the loft.

“Fine.” Nathan stood and crossed over to the couch, his arms extended for his sleeping son. “Let me put him down to nap and I'll leave you to it.”

The awkward was back, carpeting the start-up offices of IFT and fouling the chips. After a few weeks, when the legitimate late nights started piling up, Nathan stopped waiting for Harold to power down the computers and invite him back to the loft. The awkward was back but the output was tremendous. By early winter of that first year, in a field crowded by Apple's new Macintosh and the announcement out of Bellevue, Washington about a new operating system called Windows, IFT struck gold with a cleaner, better method of processor architecture.

By the start of their second year IFT had seven patent applications pending and the attention of the technology industry. By year three they moved into IFT Plaza. Too much glass, steel and concrete for the awkward to catch a permanent hold. Harold's suits got better, Nathan's scotch more expensive. They had figured out how to make the partnership work.

A partnership that included Olivia and Will. Sometimes, if he was in a particularly peevish mood, Harold went out of his way to remind Nathan of this complicated arrangement. And sometimes, when there was too much work and not enough qualified staffers available to transform Harold's code into software that worked flawlessly, peevish crossed over to cruelty.  
Nathan never complained and Harold never apologized. Complicated and destined for misery.

–  
**Twenty Good Years**

 _Arise ye sons of MIT, in loyal brotherhood._  
_The future beckons unto ye and life is full and good._  
_Arise and raise your steins on high; tonight shall ever be_  
_A mem'ry that will never die, ye sons of MIT._

“Can I come in?”

Harold looked up from his work bench at the sound of Nathan's light rap at the door. Standing in rolled shirt-sleeves, with his collar loose, he beckoned his friend inside. “Why are you still here so late?”

“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.” Nathan said, smiling as he walked over to look at the code flying across the monitor. “Is this the new Intel?”

“Hmm. The one-gig chip. I'm setting up a box now for the AMD. These speeds are amazing. I want to get some bench marking done tonight then take another run at the web camera project.”

“It's nearly midnight, Harold.” Nathan admonished as he listened to Harold's update. “I'd be remiss in my responsibilities as 'the boss' if I let you stay here and work through to coffee and bagels.”

“You're not my boss, Nathan. “

“No, I guess I'm not. But maybe I can still convince you to call it a night. Let's get a room, get some room service. I'll give you a back rub.”

“Or I could call us a couple of taxis to get us home. " Harold turned away, playing his fingers along the keyboard as he restarted the speed test program. "Will's giving his book report tomorrow. Be there for breakfast with him, he wants you to hear it.”

Nathan snorted. “How is it you have a better handle on my son's schedule and milestones than I do?”

“I don't know? Uncle Harold makes time for him?”

“Don't.” Nathan waved off the familiar attack. “This was a part of the deal too. I don't want to do this forever but right now the economy is hot and everybody wants what we're selling. These business trips and networking jaunts aren't all fun and games.”

“I know," Harold snorted and looked up from his screen. He brushed his palm along Nathan's jawline. "While you're jet-setting and wooing the big money I'm here looking after your wife and raising your son. All part of the deal.”

Nathan pulled his head away and pushed Harold back. “Jesus, Harold! Do you do that on purpose? Does it get you off to treat me like shit?”

“No, Nathan -”

“Then why?” Nathan's defiant stance softened. “What happened to us?”

“We grew up.” Harold closed in again to thread his fingers through Nathan's. “I imagine we've figured out exactly everything about ourselves and each other.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I love you, Nathan Ingram. And Olivia and Will. ” Harold lifted their intertwined fingers, resting them together on Nathan's chest. “It means that sometimes I'm a dick, and I push your buttons because I want something real from you. And you know that. And you keep coming back because these late night cat fights are the closest either of us gets to genuine interaction anymore.”

“When did you get so cynical, Harold?”

“Crept up on me in my old age, I guess.” Harold pressed a kiss over Nathan's knuckles. “Is the Gramercy okay? Late room service and you'll be back here in time for your 10 am with Qwestar.”

“Will?”

Harold was already dialing the hotel front desk. “Call in the morning, wish him good luck and tell Olivia you'll pick him up from school. He'll have the whole car ride to catch you up on the details.” He gestured for Nathan to put the bank of computers into sleep mode as the reservation agent booked a suite for Mr. Ingram.

The next morning Harold lay quietly in the warm tangle of sheets as Nathan made his phone call home. He was absolved. It was still early enough for another go before breakfast and the drive back to IFT Plaza.

The loft had been off limits for a few years now and Harold had never told Nathan about the other residences he owned throughout the city. Still, for a while they fell into a new rhythm. Nathan worked during the day and scheduled time for dinner at home with his family. Sometimes Harold joined them. Three or four nights a month Nathan would come back to Harold's office and they'd book a luxury hotel room and try to recapture the story they'd sold themselves twenty years ago.

Then one terrible September night Nathan came to the office and turned on the television instead.


	5. Measure Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How long?” Nathan asked.
> 
> “With the NSA feeds from Fort Mead? A couple of weeks, maybe. That should be enough to start with.”
> 
> “And if it doesn't work?”
> 
> Harold angled his head in question, brows furrowed. “Doesn't work?”

“Collecting and assembling the data is not the problem. Information we've got. Here, look at this, “ Harold pushed a schematic drawing across the desk to Nathan. “This is ThinThread, NSA classified, but I know my way around their servers. The government is already collecting vast amounts of data from concerned citizens frightened by every Buddhist or Sikh they pass on the streets, emails, the cellular system, they've even started crude social graphing – connecting the data to people, and connecting those people to other people.”

Nathan absently tugged his ear while he skimmed the drawing, then the first few paragraphs of the attached report. “There's too much data,” he concluded after a moment.

“Exactly. Every communications channel, phone line, radio, what have you, is nothing more than bandwidth and noise.”

“The Shannon limit.” Nathan said, nodding.

“We can expand that channel. Right now ThinThread is buried under a load of data. My guess, it's accurately decrypting 60- 65% of data intake. The rest is lost in the encryption process. ThinThread is good, but it's inefficient. I can build it better.”

“How long?” Nathan asked.

“With the NSA feeds from Fort Mead? A couple of weeks, maybe. That should be enough to start with.”

“And if it doesn't work?”

Harold angled his head in question, brow furrowed. “Doesn't work?” He'd spent some time thinking through the logistics of this build. How to break the work into smaller systems that, on the surface, had no relationship to an all-seeing, all-knowing electronic surveillance machine.  The IFT engineers that had helped make the company a world leader in computer technology were more than qualified to manage the parts build.  Serial camera interfaces and phone could be farmed out to the security team, data mining software to the search engine developers, gait and facial recognition to biomedical research.

“Murphy, always account for Murphy," Nathan chuckled.  "But seriously, the DoD are going to want to know how this works? Who made it work? There will be questions, and nothing about the Harold Wren that I know suggests you're going to step forward, willingly, and volunteer those answers.”

Harold shrugged and made himself busy with gathering up the research papers. “I've... considered that possibility.”

Nathan leaned forward to catch Harold's hand to the desk, forcing Harold's downcast face up. “And?”

“Well, obviously I can't be connected to this.” Harold jerked his hand free, picked up the papers and jogged them sharply against the table “You said you wanted to make a difference, this is it. You and your talented team of IFT engineers will build a system that can collect, catalog, and evaluate data of near limitless volume.”

Harold watched as Nathan crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing slightly when the seconds dragged by without a response. This was the US government they were getting into bed with, Harold thought. And who knew what else was out in that darkness. Nathan's media profile and charm would protect him. Harold could count on his own tested defensive tactics: flight, flock, camouflage.

Nathan dropped his head and carded his hand through his hair. He pushed away from the table to pace Harold's small office. “You know, when I was a kid, seven or eight, my brothers decided it was time I learnt to swim. So they threw my into the pond back behind the house. It took a few minutes, but I figured it out.” He paused in front of the window. Harold watched the slow turn of the back of Nathan's head, his partner taking in the wide open New York nightscape. “How much time will you need, Harold?”

Harold traced his finger over the neatly stacked pile of project brief, code, and diagrams in front of him. After a moment he rose and joined Nathan at the window. “Most of it's ready to go now,” he began, measuring the scope of what he was saying. “While I was inside the NSA servers I took the liberty of doing some... corporate restructuring. They'll look, but they won't find me. Once I get the machine running we'll have to lay off some staff, of course. I can arrange to place most of them.”

“And you? You plan on going through with that 'faking your death in a car explosion' idea? Taking up insurance underwriting full time?” Nathan's voice was low, his eyes still focused on some far away place on the other side of the tall window. He extended his arm, sliding his hand into Harold's.

 _He'd figured it out._   Harold gave Nathan's hand a squeeze. “Don't be morbid, Nathan. I've got it covered.”

 **–**  
**[2002/02/14]**

Because endings and beginnings were important, Harold took note of the change. Once, during the drag and quiet of coding, he had indulged himself and let his mind wander down a path where he'd known that night, -the Four Seasons upper tower, after the tacit agreement to move forward together on the machine- that, would be the end. He would have- What, savored it? Left himself open for Nathan to talk him out of the idea?

But, he hadn't known in time and the late night visits had come to a quiet end. Now, he was chiding himself for expecting today to be any different. Nathan, who rarely passed up an opportunity to nettle him, had long ago taken up the habit of leaving him Valentine's Day gifts. Practical, innocuous things to be found in his backpack, a desk drawer. He'd checked the cavernous open spaces of the 35th and 36th floors, there had been nothing.

Probably for the best, Harold decided as he settled in to work. As long as Alicia Corwin and her associates were nosing around IFT best practice dictated that he and Nathan distance themselves. Certainly he missed it, missed the time with Will and Olivia too, but this project had a greater import than his, if he were really honest about it, pique over a silly missed holiday.

Besides, he thought as he debugged a new behavioral strategy selection algorithm, the machine was taking up so much of his time anyway. The hardware fabrications had been finished just after Thanksgiving, most of the IFT staff were served their severances afterward, for jobs well done. Since then, Harold had worked on the internal structure, the software processes to stitch it all together. From there he got started on the basics of pulling data into the machine and teaching it how to interpret and analyze that information. How to process the data faster and more accurately. How to aggregate outcomes and make predictions based on heuristics or good old fashioned data modeling.

His machine was clever and nimble and that pleased him. The days spent crafting line after line of elegant code, then running the machine through agile testing loops delighted him. His machine was worlds away from his old Morse code repeater, but the principles were so close. His machine would protect people in a way that it had not been able to protect his father. The thought made Harold smile, it was a fitting legacy.

By the end of the day Harold was satisfied with the progress he'd made. Maybe he'd treat himself to takeout from that new pho shop. He began shutting down the computers for the night while pondering his dinner options. Distracted, he almost missed the low, repeating beep from the audio monitors.

“Hush, I'll be back in the morning, we'll play again.”

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep._

“Okay, “ Harold adjusted himself in from of the web cam. “What is it?”

On screen, security video footage unspooled. Earlier this morning, 6:27 am -he'd been finishing up his run through Central Park. An overhead angle of the server cluster. A shot from the hallway camera. Harold pushed closer, curious as he watched Nathan punch in the security code for the lab. Watched Nathan open and close his desk drawers one after the other, wide eyed at the intrusion. Watched Nathan move to the computers, _this computer_ , and glance up at the camera boldly. Nathan pulled an envelope from his pocket and slid it under the keyboard. _This keyboard._ Harold quickly tipped the keyboard up and retrieved the package.

Robin-red and sealed, nothing written on the outside. Harold slid a finger under the flap. Inside was a photo. Harold and Nathan, the summer before their final year at MIT, a visit to the Ingram family ranch, a sweltering weekend hunting trip on which the only thing Harold bagged was Mr. Ingram's charming son.

Harold patted the top of the monitor. He and Nathan had been young and invincible. He flipped the photo over and his breath caught in his throat. _"In the beginning... -N.I."_

 

 **\--**  
**SEARCHING FOR ADMIN..**  
**CELLULAR GSM:**  
**917-XXX-XXXX: NO SIGNAL**  
**917-XXX-XXXX: NO SIGNAL**  
**917-XXX-XXXX: MATCH DETECTED**

 **LOCATING SOURCE.....**  
**SHEA STADIUM**  
**123-01 ROOSEVELT AVE**  
**FLUSHING, QUEENS 11368**

 

“Don't dawdle, Will. We're gonna' miss the player line up.” Harold stood by the gate and tapped the two tickets against his palm as he waited for Will Ingram to finish his conversation. “Will!” Harold raised his arm, pointing to his watch.

“Just a minute!”

Harold scowled when the announcer's voice came over the public address system to welcome fans to the game. He was about to walk over and hand Will his ticket when the younger man finally broke free of his conversation and trotted over to the stadium entryway.

“Sorry about that, Uncle Harold.” Will fell in line behind him as they handed over the tickets then passed through the turnstiles on their way to the elevators and their seats. “That was Frank Downs, Harvard admissions.”

“What happened to Georgetown?”

“That's still the plan, but you have to have a few back ups.”

“And Harvard is your second chance school?” Harold said with laugh. They found their seats just as the opening strains of the National Anthem began. “You'll make a fine doctor, Will, no matter where you end up, but I do have to say, Washington is so far away. I'm going to miss having you underfoot all the time, ” he said tenderly. “Who else will I able to drag to the ballpark with me?”

After the opening ceremonies Will went off to buy them cold beers and Cracker Jacks. Left on his own for the time being, Harold scanned the field. The Cubs looked good, much better than the Mets, he thought dismissively. He'd run the stats in his head all off-season and figured his Cubs had a real shot at going to the World Series this year. By the time Will returned, Harold was ready for that beer and an afternoon of baseball.

At the start of the second inning the Cubs were up 4-0. Harold and Will fell into comfortable conversation about Will's ski trip last month, Will's plans to hike Machu Picchu that summer. Will's hopes for med school. By comparison, Harold Wren, Insurance Underwriter, juggled a much less active calendar. “Oh, you know, risk and exposure, it's not all that interesting, but the pay is very good, so if you ever decide you want...”

Will waved him off, “No thanks, Uncle Harold, though I do appreciate the offer. Right now I'm interested in putting a little distance between me and the city, things are getting rough at home.”

Harold took a sip of his now warm beer. “When I last talked to your father he mentioned counseling. Have they started that yet?”

“No. You know Dad, he's always busy. And Mom's slowly washing her hands of the marriage. They don't think I know, but I've been watching it fall apart since high school.”

“That's a real shame. Truly.” Harold continued on honestly, “Olivia and Nathan used to be good for each other, they brought out the best in each other. And of course, they brought you into the world. But sometimes people... grow apart.”

“Which is why I need to leave, before they start making me choose sides.” Will said.

“Lets hope it doesn't come to that.” Harold's words sat between them for a few moments before he shook them off. He pulled out his money clip and peeled off a fifty dollar bill. “I've got this round, and hot dogs.”

“And?” Will asked, plucking the money from Harold's fingers, seemingly ready to change the subject.

Harold chuckled, repeating the routine they'd played since the time a much younger Will had discovered that money could be exchanged for chocolate bars and Game Boy cartridges. “ _And_ , you can keep the change.”

 

\--  
**[2003/04/18]**

“Would you look at that,” Harold murmured encouragingly as the machine started integrating the new 3G cellular data. “Very good.” Hunched over his workstation, he opened a terminal window and began connecting the data threads. “You're quite the clever girl, aren't you? When I get back we'll go out again and have some real fun. But first you're gonna' need time to process all of this new information. What's that? I know. You are a smart girl.”

“I'm not interrupting anything, am I?”

Harold jumped at Nathan's close voice. “No, no,” he stammered. “We were just... I was inputting some new... Have a seat. What brings you down?”

Nathan, garment bag in hand, slid into the offered chair.“ I stopped by to make sure you got out of here on time tonight. You have a date, remember?”

Harold's eyes widened, he looked down at the processor clock. “The fundraiser gala, yes.”

Nathan draped the bag over Harold's monitor. “Olivia's expecting you at the house at seven.”

“You know, I don't think this is a good idea, Nathan. Not that I mind escorting your wife to these high society functions, but it's not exactly low profile.”

“And yet, she can't show up to her own fundraiser alone. Besides, I thought you enjoyed playing the insurance man about town. What did you say, it strengthens the cover?”

“This isn't a game, Nathan. The Journal will certainly have photographers there. The Times too. It's dangerous.”

“Then don't get photographed.” Nathan leaned over to unzip the garment bag. “Besides, Olivia's counting on you.”

“No, _you're_ counting on me,” Harold groused as he pulled the tuxedo free. “Olivia is more independent than you give her credit for and that's probably why you're living in that obscene loft, alone, and scheduling play dates for your wife.”

“Fair enough.” Nathan ended the conversation. “Now, please get dressed, I've got a car waiting for you downstairs.” He glanced around the development lab, “Is there anything I can do in here?”

“No. The system's on autopilot. It'll take at least a week to finish compiling the phone feeds.” Harold flicked open the buttons of his work shirt. “I'm thinking about taking the week off.”

“Really? Going to catch up on some reading?” Nathan caught Harold's discarded shirt in his hand, his eyes narrowing as Harold worked loose his belt.

“I'm thinking about a proper vacation, abroad. Someplace old. I've always wanted to visit Italy.” He was stripped down to his boxers, undershirt and socks. “Pants please.”

“Talk about bad ideas?” Nathan peeled the tuxedo from the hanger and began handing over the clothes. “You just said the machine is working on a big data set.”

“That's why this is the perfect time. Who knows when I'll get another window like this, and quite frankly, I need the break. All work and no play, you know.”

Nathan tilted his head towards the small sleeping area Harold had outfitted for himself at the back of the server rack. “If you need play time we could...”

“No, we couldn't. Not anymore anyway.” Harold tugged on the jacket. Adjusted his bow tie. Not while there was still a chance for Nathan and Olivia to reconcile.

 

 **–**  
**IDENTIFYING SUBJECTS...**

 **NAME: WILKINS, JAMES R.**  
**SSN: 987-65-4326**  
**DOB: 1967/10/09**  
**POB: KALISPELL, MT**  
**OCCUPATION: AIRCRAFT CARGO HANDLING SUPERVISOR – LGA**

 **NAME: JELISNEK, MIRA K.**  
**SSN: 660-26-5274**  
**DOB: 1958/02/08**  
**POB: BAYBORO, NC**  
**OCCUPATION: CHEMICAL ENGINEER - IONTEK**

Harold sipped his tea and watched as the names and numbers scrolled over the screen. The breakthrough had come last week. Data, training and algorithms finally coming together to produce actionable results. It was both fantastic and awful, each of these names was somehow connected to a pending act of violence and while Harold held part of the puzzle, figuring out the relevance of this information was still a mystery. The machine was still missing the whole picture, despite the big data sets at its disposal, Harold realized there was still a gap in its machine learning system. They were close.

Harold coded.  
Two days later, the machine responded.

  
**NAME: KURZWEIL, GORDON A.**  
**SSN: 660-26-5274**  
**DOB: 1967/10/09**  
**POB: BAYBORO, NC**  
**OCCUPATION: CASE OFFICER - DIA**

Of course, Harold whispered, tracing the threads, watching as they interconnected. This was it. He memorized the number. He took the back way up to Nathan's office, two steps at a time.

 

 **–**  
**2007/07/28**  
**10:23:16 PM**  
**SEARCHING FOR ADMIN..**  
**CELLULAR GPRS:**  
**917-XXX-XXXX: MATCH DETECTED**

 _The numbers had thwarted three major terrorist plots to date. Identified thirty-seven persons of interest relevant to national security. The machine also identified 17 irrelevants._  
_Identified 18._

_The numbers never stopped._

“Harold,” Grace nudged his arm as she stood and tilted her head towards the stage. Spattering applause slowly built to fill the small black box theater and clear the fog of numbers from his head. Later, her arm in his as they walked through the park to the house, she teased him about missing the entire third act. “It's like you just zoned out. One day you have to let me in on the secret of these fascinating computer programs you daydream about.”

“The next time you're having trouble getting to sleep, I will.” He pulled her closer as the crossed the street. “It really was a fine play, what I saw of it. You can tell Jason he did a fine job.”

Grace laughed, stepped back to let Harold scoop up the newspaper and unlock the front door. “Is 'fine' a code word for something else?”

“Not at all.” He swept her inside then reset the locks. The play had been terrible, pretentious and poorly acted, but Grace had been eager to support her playwright friend, and, she seemed to genuinely enjoy the performance, so yes, it had been a fine evening out.  Sometimes Harold let himself imagine a lifetime of fine evenings. Happiness x π.

“Harold, could you help?” Grace stood in the middle of the cozy sitting room they'd furnished together, fingers buried in her hair, pulling the pins free.

Harold joined her, distractedly close and not always clear whether he was loosening her updo or helping to tangle it more. Grace Hendricks was imminently kissable. Tentative and unsettled in one breath, building to a brazen immodesty that made him feel twenty years younger.  
They eventually got her hair undone, then her dress and his suit, leaving a rumpled trail to the bedroom.

 

 **NAME: DONOVAN, LAUREN**  
**SSN: 799-56-7649**  
**DOB: 1967/10/09**  
**POB: NEW YORK, NY**  
**OCCUPATION: STUDENT -CUNY**

 **NAME: JACKSON, IMANI S.**  
**SSN: 947-36-1125**  
**DOB: 1984/06/28**  
**POB: NEW YORK, NY**  
**OCCUPATION: CASHIER - SAV-A-LOT**

  
**11:59:59 PM**  
**REINSTATING SYSTEM**  
**DELETING NON-RELEVANT DATA**

In the morning she'd make breakfast and tea and send him off with a goodbye kiss. In the evening he'd come home. Sometimes she was out with her small circle of friends, a bohemian collection. Some nights she was already asleep. His favorite nights were coming home to find her curled on the sofa, lost in a good book, waiting up for him. His father would have called Grace Hendricks a keeper.


	6. Reaping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the seasons Spring was his favorite, but Winter had its appeal too. Winter was planning season and there was so very much to do because the Numbers never stopped.

**[2007/10/24]**

**11:59:57 PM**  
**XXX-XX-7649**  
**XXX-XX-1125**  
**XXX-XX-9712**  
**XXX-XX-1159**  
**XXX-XX-6048**  
**XXX-XX-6049**  
**XXX-XX-3694**  
**XXX-XX-0482**  
**XXX-XX-7627**

 

Harold minimized the terminal window.  
_Playing God_ , Nathan had accused.

 **11:59:58 PM**  
**REINSTANTIATING SYSTEM**  
**DELETING NON-RELEVANT DATA**

The ethics of the mission, to Harold at least, had been clear before they even embarked on the journey. Design a system to analyze massive amounts of data in order to predict and prevent terrorist activities, to identify relevant threats to national security. So why was Nathan still making this, clearly flawed, is/ought argument for changing the design? Why didn't Nathan trust his ability?

And why was he now questioning it himself?

Harold pushed away from his desk, shaking off the seeds of doubt. It was late. Grace would already be asleep, he thought, frowning. He'd told her he had to stay late tonight to conduct an audit for a new database program.

Harold Wren had used the same excuse with Will Ingram last week, in reference to Universal Heritage instead.  
A series of not quite real lives built through iterative design.

The truth was, he was putting in the late nights debugging a crop of recent anomalies. Subroutines that he had not coded, and yet, the machine was running. Troubling because the machine seemed dead set against being patched.

His machine was approaching infallibility. Harold allowed himself to admit that. The machine represented, quite possibly, a seismic shift in information theory, and he had built it. And in building it, he had also created the list, the numbers that never stopped. The machine was doing exactly what it was designed to do and Harold acknowledged that as well.

Not everything that's broken was meant to be fixed.

 **12:10:01 AM**  
**PRIMARY OPERATIONS ONLINE**  
**HEURISTICS ONLINE**  
**FEED ANALYSIS ONLINE**  
**THREAT DETECTION ONLINE**

\--  
**[2008/02/14]**

Harold made a half turn in front of the bedroom mirror, lips pursed. “They always felt a bit... ostentatious. Too bright for the office.”

Grace stepped forward and adjusted the burnt orange waistcoat. “Is that why you never wear them? Because I don't think you had the suits made for the office, Harold Martin. This was indulgence,” she smoothed his collar. “And it's a really handsome look on you.”

“Stop it,” he demurred, flushing under her close attention. “I got them because you talked me into the fitting.” Harold looked back at the mirror, pivoting, adjusting the aubergine tie, reevaluating the recently delivered Italian bespoke suit.

Behind him Grace flashed a bright, teasing smile at his reflection. “Really? I twisted your arm? That's not how I remember things at all. But, if indulging me is the only way I'm going to get you into this suit tonight then, _please_ wear one of the new suits. Match up the outside to the inside for me. ”

Harold gave her a small, confused smile and gestured over the rich textiles. “Is this how you see me?”

“Most of the time, yes.” She stepped closer, slid her arms around his waist. “You appreciate detail, and beautiful things, and you are, occasionally reckless- bright orange, purple and green reckless. I mean – flying lessons? Who does that, and why? Then, sometimes you're kind of... old fashioned, but in all the good ways, like holding doors open and being polite. Not every man does that, Harold. I don't think you even know just how special you are. So now, you have a suit that tells the world all the things that _you_ won't.” She trailed off, burying the rest of her words into a kiss to his jacketed back.

Harold pulled her around to face him and lowered his head for a kiss that started at her mouth and slowly traced to the corner of her lips before he finally rested his cheek against hers. He liked the way he looked through her eyes.

There was a comfortable, ordinary simplicity in the Harold that Grace saw. No need to parse his words or temper his emotions. No allowances, like he made with Nathan, for the way things _had_ been. Grace existed in the now.

Now, sitting across from him at the restaurant table, now discussing the inevitability of the country electing its first female President come November. Now, playing her fingers over the back of his hand, dusting over his crisp shirt cuff, sliding along the hand sewn jacket buttonholes. Now, an animated film festival this weekend at the Cinema Village, now, they need more eggs and hard wheat flour, now, he pays for dinner and leads Grace along cold New York sideways, noticing the way the street lights halo over her hair.

For the first time, in quite some time, Harold concedes that this might be happiness. Considers that he could go on like this forever, that he'd done the impossible before and he could do it again for her. Could reconcile Harold Wren, and Harold Martin, and Harry, the too smart kid from the middle of nowhere.

There would be, sometime soon, some perfect moment when he could tell her everything. Explain all the things he suspected she suspected but, true to her word, had never pressed him on. Tour her through the offices she'd never asked to visit - assuring him that what he did Monday through Friday, nine to five, or seven, or midnight, was his business. From a woman who seemed to harbor no dark secrets of her own yet actively sought out the mysteries in the everyday world around her, Harold found this unquestioning permission to preserve his own secrets confounding and challenging, and maybe that was the real reason the Machine had picked her out in the first place.

Now, Harold and Grace walked, gloved fingers twined together, through the park, amongst the Numbers. He would tell her about the farm, take her to the family plot. He would introduce her to Nathan, introduce her to his Will, to his Machine. True happiness meant, of course, no more secrets between them. He'd tell her everything, certainly. Some day, very soon.

After The Machine was finished.  
After he packed it off to the government.  
After Nathan finally got the Numbers out of his head.  
After Will completed his residency.  
After Olivia remarried.  
After.

 **11:59:58 PM**  
**REINSTANTIATING SYSTEM**  
**DELETING NON-RELEVANT DATA**

After Nathan forced his hand.

 

\--  
**2010/09/25 08:23:54 PM**  
**> CONNECTED TO IMEI 78934746139 [ADMIN]**  
**> INTERNAL MICROPHONE ON**  
**> MONITORING AUDIO**

“Harold, you're home early! Not that I'm complaining. What.... Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I'm just tired. How was your day?”

“Better than yours, I'm guessing. I made a lot of headway with the chapter seven pages. Tomorrow I'll be ready to show them to you.”

“Grace, about tomorrow...”

“Another late night?”

“No, actually an early morning. Here, come sit with me. I need to tell you some... things. About who I am, what I do. Oh -”  
**[SIGNAL CONNECTION LOST]**

–  
**Day 3191**

He remembered hailing a taxi outside the old library and the long, jolting drive to Hartford, Connecticut. Not UHI corporate headquarters this time, but to the hospital. Cervical spine fusion surgery and a fractured hip replaced. Harold Wren's money insuring anonymous treatment. Harold Martin's lawyers disentangling his conjoined affairs with Grace. Harold Wren's secretary sending flowers and written condolences in his stead. Sloughing away remnants of old lives.

Two weeks later he cleared himself for discharge. In the aftermath of the ferry and the funerals, Harold returned to the city and disappeared completely. Sowing the seeds of a new life.

The safe house was discreet, accessible, outfitted for long term after care. Not his house, not Wren's or Martin's either. Impersonal hands transferred him from the sedan to the chair, up the elevator, to the apartment. Steady and slow from the chair to the bed. IV lines and opioid drips and the daily indignity of relinquishing his personal care and hygiene to impersonal hands.

Of course the machine had known.

 **[!] killall -STOP locate */AUX_ADMIN**  
**trap "echo TERMINATING PROCESSES..." SIGTERM**

 **while :**  
**do**  
**done**

That first night out of the hospital, not quite alone in the safe house, he dreamt of Nathan's smile, how he had returned it, and how, in that split of an instant, he'd knew that Nathan had been right all along. The rest of the world ought to know about the machine. Then his dream exploded.

The next morning Harold started base building his pain, fighting through the need of the morphine pump, hiding the Dilaudid tablets under his tongue. It occurred to him that, given the circumstances, the easy out of pain medication was profoundly inequitable. His experiment lasted a day and a half.

Impersonal hands fed and bathed him, manipulated his damaged frame, pushing and pulling busted muscle and bone. Harold mastered the painful process of moving from the bed to the chair first, then from the chair to the bath unaided.

Of all the seasons Spring was his favorite, but Winter had its appeal too. Winter was planning season and there was so very much to do because the Numbers never stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for this fandom. In truth, first fic in ages. Had to write it down before my head went 'splode. Not beta'd.


End file.
